Just Gone

47: Walking Disaster

It wasn't that I wanted to die, I just wanted to stop breathing.

When we, as in anyone, think about breathing: our pattern changes. This is because you don't think about breathing, it's something you do, something your body does for you without question. When you sit back and think, I'm breathing, you may sit up straighter, breathe deeper, hold it in for a bit. Maybe even question if you'd really been breathing the whole time. Because when you don't acknowledge it, you don't feel it, you just do it.

The Walkers don't feel anything, they just do, they just act. They barely acknowledge their existence, let alone breathing. Yes, they are dead but do they still have the instinct, the habit to inhale the oxygen? Or are their lungs so rotted from the inside that there is nowhere for it to go? They have to inhale, from what we know they smell blood, flesh, food. Does that mean they are always breathing, even if it's futile and it's purely for finding food? Or is it an exercise they have to force? Is breathing a choice for them?

I'd never just watched a Walker, and I mean really watched it. We've seen them stumble around, chase after us, we've seen them up close as we stabbed or shot them in the head. But we never took the time to watch and see if they breathe.

I'd been spending a lot of time thinking about breathing, I'd have to try to get into the habit of easy shallow breathing. If I breathed in too deeply, a sharp pain would pierce my chest. When I coughed, which was all the time, it felt like someone was trying to pull my lungs out through my throat.

The only good thing lately, was that my throat no longer hurt as much. As much, it still felt as if there was a bit of sandpaper stuck in there when I swallowed.

Everything hurt, all the time. At first, I'd try to convince myself I slept in a bad position, or I spent too much time walking around and being on my feet. But after so long, without the aches in every muscle going anywhere, it was obvious there was another problem.

Though that day, I could finally blame my aching muscles for strenuous activity.

When the plan was first being discussed, not everyone agreed. Taking out an entire herd of Walkers did not seem smart, even fenced in. Some thought it would be the best plan, taking them all out in a controlled environment.

"It may not be safe now but look at that fence. Look at all the land inside the fence, safe, secure. We could make a life here, we can clean it up. There can't be that many inside. This is too good a place to pass up. We can make this work. These things are spread out enough we may be able to handle them on our own." Rick's eyes were practically glowing with excitement and hope, trying to convince the group. I couldn't remember if I'd ever seen him so hyped up about something.

It bothered me.

I didn't like change, it was confusing and hard to follow, not to mention frustrating and downright tiring. But lately, traveling, going house to house, hiding from Walkers, killing them, that type of change had become normal.

This change was unnerving, the change of having a plan, being excited about it, and actually executing it. When was the last time anyone had a real plan? Months, I was pretty sure.

"This place has got to have a stockpile of canned goods, hopefully, it was overrun by the undead before it could be looted by anyone," Tyreese agreed with him.

"Yeah, hopefully, it's just full of flesh-eating monsters and our baked beans are still intact," T-Dog scoffed, before pausing, as if realizing what he'd said. "Jesus. I'd love some baked beans right now."

A lot of the day was spent on planning, standing around, and then continuously stabbing Walkers. Yes, we did that every day, but not dozens after dozens. From behind a fence no less. It did feel safer to have the upper hand on them, but after so long the metal from the chain-link pushing against your hand would start to hurt.